


fault lines

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"there's still something underlying that won't die no matter how many times they ruin a perfectly good relationship"</p><p>Because Andy and Mardy won the doubles title at Indian Wells in 2009 and this happened. Originally posted in July 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fault lines

It's only when he gets to the desert that he realises how much like home it feels.

Same courts, same hotel, same beautiful weather. There's no frantic rush like in New York or searing heat like Cincy or the tradition of Wimbledon but Mardy likes it that way, even if he doesn't admit it too often. There's no rush to do anything here which is partly why he's agreed to do a short "day in the life of a tennis player" type thing even though he probably wasn't even close to the top of their list. Fairly sure that would have been Andy but he hasn't spoken to his friend in weeks, didn't have time to ask for any tips because Andy's used to this, the twins too, but instead Mardy's been thrown in head first.

It's not quite as awkward as he expected, collapsed in a fit of giggles three times as he'd stumbled over his introduction but he gets used to it. Practice was the same, despite the fact that there are cameras everywhere while he's playing it's different in practice and he's far more self aware than he usually is. It takes over half an hour to get some decent shots on camera and even then they're not quite as perfect as he'd like.

Although he's pretty pleased with that ace.

Talking to the other players is easy, a joke and a smile soon grants him an interview and Andy'd be proud, teasing him about how his natural charm wins over the hearts of the guys as well as the girls. It's mostly good natured but there's always a moment when it goes too far - they're friends but still ultra competitive, and Andy's always hated the fact that it had come so easy for him in school - and all Mardy does to shut him up is remind Andy how well it worked on him ten years ago.

Other than kissing Andy, it's the quickest way to get him to stop talking.

"So, where to next?" the camera man asks, and there's a split second of decision before Mardy gestures to the main stadium.

"Hopefully someone more interesting than me'll be in there," he jokes and it earns him a smile from the camera man. He's so focused on trying to find the right name on his practice schedule that he doesn't notice the movement out of the corner of his eye and when he does it's too late and Andy's hug-tackling him to the ground before he has time to move out of the way.

"Get off me, fucker," he says, the words harsh but the tone teasing and Andy pauses for a moment, seemingly weighing his options before he relents, getting up in one fluid moment and pulling Mardy with him, a hand wrapped around his wrist (always his right, Mardy's noticed, because Andy would die before admitting he worried about him), brushing the dust off his clothes with the other.

"You're an impossible man to find, Fishy," Andy starts with a grin, and he grins back because though he hates the nickname it's impossibly Andy and he wouldn't trade it for the world, "'cause I've got something I wanna ask."

He's smiling and for once it reaches his eyes; he's relaxed, completely open and honest and it's utterly endearing on Andy. The smiles were all too frequent in their misspent youth, whether it was from winning a match to running away from their latest mishap to just outplaying Mardy in basketball, but they're rarer now and Mardy hasn't seen one for a while, each loss chipping away at his confidence, each interview making him a little more guarded and though once he knew Andy better than he knew himself, he can't say the same now.

"As long as it doesn't end with the phrase ‘it'll be fun Mar, we won't get into trouble, I promise'."

"I can't promise anything," Andy says, smirking as though he's got a secret, "but I think you'll like this. Who are you playing doubles with?"

He pauses for a moment, wonders if this is really Andy's question because if so he's pretty sure it didn't warrant a tackle-hug and makes a mental note to get his revenge for that at some point in the next two weeks. Preferably sooner rather than later.

"Don't know yet. Got a couple of people interested but nothing definite. You planning to steal them from me?"

"Nope," Andy says with that same smirk and Mardy's starting to get a little worried, because that's the smirk from their youth that always got him into trouble. "Wanna play with me?"

The double entendre isn't lost on Mardy but when Andy starts fluttering his eyelashes theatrically Mardy bursts into giggles because there is no one that looks less innocent than Andy Roddick trying to look innocent. It earns him a glare and a comment muttered under Andy's breath that he can't quite make out but he figures it worth it.

"As long as you don't let me down, I'm in."

Once again he's teasing, always falling back into old patterns with Andy because apparently old habits do die hard. There's silence for a moment, Mardy suddenly becoming acutely aware that Andy still hasn't let go of his wrist, the warm weight of rough fingers comforting against bare skin.

"You won't regret this Mar, I promise," is murmured into his ear, somehow Andy had gotten into his personal space without him even realising and he drags his eyes from the dust on the concrete to meet hazel eyes with blue. Fingers twitch against his wrist, sliding over his hand and twine briefly with his own.

"I'm gonna hold you to that, Roddick," he says with a smile, and he gets one as an answer. Andy doesn't offer any goodbye greeting, just stubble grazing against his cheek as he pulls back and he leaves with a smile and a skip in his step.

He's almost out of sight before Mardy realises that they weren't quite alone, somehow getting so sucked into the world of Andy Roddick that he'd forgotten about the camera crew. Who, from their expressions, had been filming the whole thing. Inwardly he groans, the phrase fucking idiot crossing his mind on more than one occasion because the whole world knows that he and Andy are close - or were close seems to be the latest theory - but this might be a step too far.

"Um, can you just delete like... all of that?" and he's aware he stumbles over the words, suddenly shy in front of people who's seen him at his most self conscious but it doesn't compare with him and Andy. "I just don't think the world needs to see what's in the past."

He mumbles the second half under his breath, still inwardly berating himself for being such an idiot. 

"Sure Mardy," the main guy says after an uncomfortable silence. "You wanna wrap it up here for today?"

Without hesitation he says yes, thankful for the alone time. There's no one who can fuck with his head as much as Andy but it goes both ways. It's why they don't work, why they've never worked but there's still something underlying that won't die no matter how many times they ruin a perfectly good relationship. Or two. Or in this case maybe three, but he's not about to ruin his marriage just to see if things might be different this time with Andy.

He already knows the outcome before it starts, the one sure bet in his entire life. By week ten they're fighting and week twenty they're barely speaking and last time it almost destroyed their friendship. And he missed Andy in those months, more than he'd like to admit.

Perhaps agreeing to doubles wasn't the greatest idea, Mardy's beginning to realise, but he doesn't want to back out now. He just hopes that they don't ruin three years of hard work with one match.

* * * * *

Losing in the first round wasn't exactly how he'd planned to start his weeks, but he supposes that no one plans losses, they just happen. This one to a guy he'd beaten two weeks before, not exactly comfortably but he felt that he could beat him again.

That he should have beaten him again.

And he hates the losses more than he loves the wins, the elation of the win soon wears off but the loss can stick for days, each point playing over and over, trying to do something different or better, how painful the press conference is when the questions hit a nerve, and the emptiness that always awaits in the locker room, the moments between the court and the entourage the hardest.

"We're still in the doubles, right?" are the first words that greet him after the loss, and his eyes flick from the concrete of the hallway to meet hazel, soft with concern and knowing that he has friends like Andy definitely helps soften the blow.

"Yeah. If you want to," he says softly, not wanting to sound hopeful but he knows it shows. Andy's always been able to read him, not looking in his direction doesn't change that.

"Course, Mar. When have I ever denied you anything?" and it's said with a brilliant, smug smile because Andy knows he's right. And he is, he's never asked anything of Andy that he hasn't been given whether they were dating or fucking or fighting or even barely speaking. 

A hand reaches out for him, brushing his arm before it's pulled away, and when he looks back to Andy he's wearing the hint of a smile. Bump of shoulders as Andy walks past, and he feels the glance over the shoulder as he walks away.

"Dinner's at eight," Andy yells after him, "wear something dressy!"

Dressy isn't in Mardy's vocabulary and when eight rolls around he knows it's not going to be in Andy's either. It's closer to eight fifteen when he arrives, Andy already sprawled over the one bench in front and if they weren't in one of the richest parts of the country he could definitely be homeless. Their clothes match, sort of, Mardy's in cut-offs and an old t-shirt and Andy's wearing some khakis that look more like baby food than a real colour but both decidedly casual and completely inappropriately dressed for this restaurant.

It doesn't seem to matter though, Andy clearly comes here too often when he's in town because he's addressed as Mr Roddick and skips the line that trails out of the door. They're seated away from the hustle of the main restaurant, in a corner near the kitchen and it's worth the clatter of dishes for the privacy they get. Before Mardy's even asked for a beer there's one in front of him and clinks it against Andy's before he takes a drink.

Alcohol is definitely the solution to his problem as it always is, there's nothing like it to dull the senses. One beer becomes two before Mardy's even opened the menu, and two becomes three, and three becomes Mardy giggling at a joke that isn't even remotely funny, trying not to spit beer over his food. He isn't exactly sure what he ordered - or what Andy ordered for him, because he'd been staring into his second by then - but it's good and doesn't intend to ruin it by adding alcohol.

Another two beers and Andy talks him into splitting a dessert. Although it's not as much talking into as it is Mardy protesting and Andy not listening. He can't resist the chocolate brownie sundae though, not even when Andy tried to feed it to him and he winds up with an ice ream smear along his chin, Andy wiping it off with his thumb, touch left for seconds too long and he feels the familiar fluttering in his stomach. He should know better, but he doesn't, and as Andy sucks his thumb into his mouth their ankles brush under the table.

To Mardy it's Andy's fault, and to Andy it's Mardy's, and nothing ever changes with them except the person who's asking them if they'll ever learn. Ten years ago it was Blanche Roddick, a glimmer of mischief underneath the tough words but now it's Stacey and Brooklyn with a much harsher tone. Fifteen years after their first - and only - fistfight over an insult (Mardy remembers that Andy started it, and Andy remembers it was Mardy) and Mardy's still attracted to the man who he shared his first kiss with because Andy thought it would be a good idea to practice. Mardy's learnt his lesson since then, nothing Andy Roddick says is ever a good idea but there are times when he's so passionate about something that Mardy just thinks it might be.

When their eyes meet, Mardy recognises the look beneath hazel all too well.

Andy Roddick with a plan is a dangerous man; Andy Roddick with a plan with a purpose with a willing participant is off the scale of dangerous. More than likely ending up somewhere between stupid and retarded and what-were-you-thinking-Mardy-you're-meant-to-be-the-sensible-one, but he's not. He's the more sensible one, the quiet one with the sometimes wicked sense of humour, the one who thinks things through at least once before doing something about it.

It isn't like he hasn't thought about Andy, or Andy seducing him which he's ninety-nine percent sure is the plan of the evening, but it always comes back to one thing. It's not a good idea.

Twenty minutes later good idea seems to have been written off in favour of whatever the fuck this is between them as he presses closer to Andy, an arm slung around his waist as they walk to the cab, Andy's breath hot on his ear as he whispers exactly what he's going to do when they get back to his house, low enough so only he can hear it and there's that spark in his eyes, the one that used to get him into trouble and this is no different. He could blame the alcohol for going along with this insanity, the special brand that only Andy Roddick can master, but he'd just be lying to himself, because the only thing he can think of is Andy Roddick and how much he really wants to fuck him at this moment.

It takes too long to get home, Andy inching closer towards him with every passing minute, but even longer for Andy to find the key to his door. Partly that's his fault, can't seem to keep his hands to himself and twice he's found himself being pressed against the wooden poles of the veranda with such force that he's sure they're going to break, but mostly it's because Andy wants to be quiet; Doug knows about their past in more details than Mardy wishes he did but he guesses that Larry doesn't and Andy wants to be his golden boy, at least for now.

The door creaks as it shuts behind them and they stumble towards Andy's room, Mardy laughing as Andy's hands skim a ticklish spot until a finger is placed over his lips. He can't resist sticking his tongue out and licking it, knows it's childish but this is Andy and they're nothing without their past, and their past involved a lot of moments just like these. Especially sneaking down corridors late at night, Mardy crawling into bed with Andy and out before the sun rose and when Blanche woke they'd be practising on the tennis courts in the garden, never the wiser.

He's pulled to the bed once they're behind closed doors, Andy's hands are pulling him ever closer and eventually into a kiss and god, he's missed this, kissing Andy Roddick is familiar and new at the same time, the spark between them never tested enough to fade and each time they do this (too often and yet not enough) it's a little brighter. Rough hands bunch in his shirt, stroking over his stomach and he laughs softly between kisses, Andy doing all but pulling him into his lap and he complies more than willingly, pressing against Andy until they're as close as they can be. Stubble grazes across his cheek as Andy presses kisses to his ear, mumbling something incomprehensible through the alcohol buzz but the meaning is clear.

Fingers slip below cotton, bare skin against his hands and he doesn't want to stop. Andy's intoxicating, wanting, no, needing more and so he does just that, Andy all too compliant as his shirt is pulled over his head, Mardy discarding his with it and then there's skin against skin, mouths moving against each other in a rhythm neither of them has forgotten.

Soon the pants are gone too and Andy's fumbling around in the drawer by the side of his bed to find the lube, and though Mardy feels he should be surprised he's really not. The plans might be insane but Andy's good at the details, the little things that complete the big picture and when Andy grins with triumph he can't help but smile back.

And that's when it hits him. The lube just makes it all the more real and as Andy leans into to kiss him he pushes back, retreating to the edge of the bed because he's about to fuck it all up. And he doesn't want to do that, as much as he wants to have Andy moaning and writhing and begging beneath him, he doesn't want to lose what they have. What he has with Stacey.

"You don't have to say it Fishy. I know."

There's a thud as the bottle of lube hits the floor and Andy's scooting closer towards him, entwining their fingers and loops an arm around his shoulders and they fall into a hug. It's awkward and he doesn't let himself relax until Andy starts stroking the nape of his neck, a guaranteed way to calm him and he mutters "bastard" as Andy laughs under his breath.

"You still gonna crash here?"

"As long as you don't try anything, Roddick." The words are meant to be teasing but he can tell they cut deeper than he meant from the way Andy stiffens in his arms, pulling away and crawling to his side of the bed, burying himself in the covers.

"There's a spare room down the corridor," Andy says, just loud enough so that Mardy can hear but sense is outweighed by desire and he joins Andy, curling as far as possible to the other side of the bed.

In the morning there's a sleepy Andy Roddick wrapped around him and an erection, and five minutes later he's out of the door only half dressed, his shoes abandoned in a situation that he has to get away from.

Sneaking in has never been his strong point so he doesn't try. Stacey's asleep when he gets back to their hotel room, and he kisses her lightly on the forehead before he steps into the shower, scrubbing his skin so hard it's raw and red because it's the first time he's ever been truly terrified of someone finding out about them. Even the media wouldn't be this bad, they're harsh and critical and he's fairly certain that Andy would lose ninety percent of his fans but losing his wife would be a million times worse.

When she wakes she kisses him good morning, and if she notices anything odd about getting breakfast in bed then she doesn't say a thing.

Four hours later he finds a pair of shoes with a note that just says "sorry c u later" in handwriting he can barely read. The shoes are placed inside his locker, but the note is folded and hidden inside his racquet bag.

* * * * *

In the fifteen years they've known each other, it's only their mischief that gets planned.

They haven't planned a winning celebration. Like most things between them, the hug just happens. Less than five seconds after they've won Andy's feet are off the ground and Mardy's bearing the whole of his weight and wow, he's really glad Andy lost those fifteen pounds. It's a hug of celebration and he can't help but grin from ear to ear and one glance at Andy confirms he's doing the same.

"Thanks Mar," whispered softly in his ear, barely audible over the crowd. He doesn't need to ask what for.

Climbing on Andy's back isn't planned either, it just seems like a good idea as he jumps with no warning and wraps his arms around Andy, and for a few seconds it's just them wrestling in the sand and splashing in the ocean in those Florida summers they shared and one brief fleeting memory from Portland, the team celebration more important than boundaries. Too often between them the boundaries are overlooked for that one perfect moment where the world rights itself and though they're more aware of the consequences than ten years ago it hasn't made them any wiser.

When he stands next to Andy, the trophy in front of them, shoulders pressed together and they share a smile, he knows that's going to be the moment he remembers.

"We won, Fishy," are the first words out of Andy's mouth once they're alone, and he doesn't get a chance to reply before he has strong arms wrapped around him and the rest of the world disappears.

"Bad idea," he mumbles before he's kissed anyway, can feel the longing and he can't help but reciprocate. They're like teenagers again, making out on Andy's bed while his parents were out of town, their girlfriends long forgotten when it was just the two of them and it never felt like cheating then. With Andy it felt right, no pressure to be anyone but himself until Mardy had moved out and once a week had become once a month and no girlfriends meant they only had each other.

It hadn't lasted long, and they hadn't spoken for six weeks after it had ended. They'd fought after they'd played each other in a small town tournament in Florida, and four weeks later it'd been like nothing had ever happened. Now it's worse, emotions running much deeper, fiancés and wives to think about, but he still can't tear himself away.

He's led to the showers, tripping over his shorts as Andy strips him, humming to himself and Mardy laughs at the ridiculousness of it all and pulls him into a kiss. In the moment it feels right, they somehow get inside a shower stall and fumble with the lock until Mardy hears it click into place and then it's just them. Mardy and Andy.

Their foreheads rest against each others as they pause for breath, and he notices that Andy can't stop smiling and wonders if he looks the same.

"You do," Andy says, light in his eyes that Mardy hasn't seen for weeks, maybe months, and he wonders how Andy knew exactly what he was thinking but the thought is fleeting, "you look like you've just won a slam."

"Feels like I have," he says, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face, fingers threading through too short hair as he pulls Andy into a kiss. "Fuck Andy, what are we doing?"

Andy speechless is a rare thing but this time it's disconcerting, seemingly more interested in the tiles on the floor than him. Gently he tilts his chin up, fingers brushing down his neck before he kisses him.

"You think it's gonna work this time?"

Seconds tick by, each one feeling like hours and the hope he has with each passing one is crushed when Andy shakes his head.

"We both know it's not, Mar. But if at first you don't succeed..."

"Andy, there's a reason that phrase only has three ‘try's in it. We have to be on at least seven or eight."

"Try eleven," Andy mutters under his breath, and he realises he wasn't meant to hear that when he sees the expression on Andy's face and it's then the revelation hits him, how much Andy cares about him and how much he wants this. It's not a bit of fun for Andy, it never has been, and though he knew how much it hit Andy last time he never experienced it other than one horrible Davis Cup loss. "Fishy-"

He doesn't let Andy finish the sentence, just crushes their lips together, hand reaching out to pull Andy closer, settling on his hipbone, rubbing circles onto the skin with his thumb until Andy's putty in his hands, breath coming in short gasps because he knows how to hit every single spot that turns on Andy Roddick.

Mardy still can't work out when he keeps coming back for more but he's drawn to Andy, like a moth to a flame. He'd once equated it with people who built their houses on the San Andreas Fault, they know the risks of an earthquake and choose to live there anyway, waiting for something to go wrong and doing all they can to minimize the damages. He knows that it's a stupid idea to get involved with Andy again, but in a tiny shower stall in a locker room in the middle of the desert, it feels like where he should be.

Winning isn't everything, he's learnt that through years of losses, but just this once it feels like coming home.


End file.
